


Walking Dictionary

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Emily and Spencer, and the definition of what they may or may not be.





	Walking Dictionary

**Author's Note:**

> Profiler's Choice Award Nominee for Best Post Episode Fic, 2014.
> 
> All definitions are from Wikipedia and the Facebook page Word Porn. Set during the Season Seven finale 'Hit/Run'.

_"Some of the most beautiful words in the entire world have already been used thousands of times. But that doesn't make them any less beautiful. So too with people."_

_~Unknown._

* * *

 

Emily Prentiss has a confession to make.

She might be a bigger nerd than Spencer Reid.

Not in every way, not in a lot of ways, but yes, in some ways, she just might be.

She just might be, in the way that she loves words. She doesn't just  _like_  them, she  _adores_  them. She worships them, pays homage to them in the collecting of books, the framing of poems, the learning of languages, the questing for the perfect word to describe every sensation, every situation.

She loves the feel of words, the sound of them—the easy unthinking of her native English; the roll and pitch of Arabic on her tongue, moving like a great ship on the sea; the staccato rhythms of Italian, with the rat-ta-ta-tat and ba-ba-ba-bop musicality of jazz; the low monotone of French, the way it slips and whispers like curtains in the breeze across polished hardwood floors; the dips and rises of Spanish, the way the vowels bubble and recede against the roof of her mouth; the somehow-comforting cadence of Russian and how it always feels like home, despite the fact that she isn't very good at speaking it and she actually didn't spend much time in Russia.

She loves how the perfect word ( _le mot juste_ , according to Flaubert) can truly capture a moment, can deeply convey a feeling, can bridge the gap between  _understanding_  and  _truly knowing_. She constantly hunts for these words in her mind, always trying to find the perfect descriptor, the most clearly-defined label for every moment in life. She recognizes that sometimes it is simply a coping mechanism, a way to distance herself from her pathos by engaging her logos, and she is also self-aware enough to realize that perhaps it is a necessary survival skill in their line of work.

For example, she uses it now, when she is with Spencer Reid, when she looks at him and thinks of all the things she wants to say, all the things she needs to tell him, all the words that are too frightening and shaky when strung together in that particular sentence structure.

Right now, they are walking to their cars. The sky is dark and the night is heavy with the promise of rain, a thick humidity permeates the air and Emily thinks that it is the taste and feeling of anticipation. She has had this odd feeling of the-moment-before-the-leap for months now, ever since she returned, and she has hoped that it would fade, but if anything, it has only intensified. And after today—after facing death and dismemberment so many times in such a small window—the feeling has gone from a fleeting thing to a constant screaming in the back of her head, which travels down her throat and presses against her lungs, filling them with a queasy urgency that makes her mouth dry and her palms sweat. She knows that it's no longer a feeling, or even a choice. It is simply what must and will happen next.

If Reid notices her caginess (she suspects he does, he always notices things like that—like how he noticed whenever she started biting her nails again), then he doesn't comment on it. She is grateful for his blindness, willful or otherwise, because she isn't ready to admit what she's feeling, much less actually discuss it.

Metanoia. Noun. Origin: Greek.  _The changing of one's mind, heart, self, or way of life_. She is currently on her own journey, her own metanoia, and it is not a willing adventure. She doesn't want to change the way she feels about these people, about this job, about this place. She doesn't want to hear the voice in the back of her head shrieking,  _We have to get away from here_. She doesn't want to lose the feeling of  _home_  and  _belonging_  that comes with this place and these people—yet if she's honest, she will admit that she's already lost that feeling, and the loss only intensifies the odd animalistic clawing at the back of her throat, the screeching need to leave. She sees the writing on the wall, and she knows that it is time to move on, but she doesn't want to. Oh, how she wishes that she didn't need to.

Reid starts talking about some foreign film that has finally reached American shores, and he mentions that they should go see it. She agrees, not really listening, because her mind is too caught up in a strange ouroboros of emotion—she is glad that he has forgiven her, that the wounds caused by her supposed death and subsequent treachery are healing, that he is no longer punishing her for things over which she had no control, and yet...she thinks that it would be easier for him to let her go a second time, if he were still angry about the first. She knows that this next leaving will be permanent, and she fears that the damage to his heart will be, too.

Màgoa. Noun. Origin: Portuguese.  _The feeling of heartbreak that lingers, leaving traces in gestures and facial expressions._  She will be responsible for creating Reid's màgoa, this time more than the last—because last time, it wasn't her choice or her fault, and this time, it is. This time, she is choosing to leave, and in doing so, she will silently be telling him,  _You were not enough, your friendship and your caring and all the little wonderful pieces of you were not enough to make me feel safe and at-home and grounded and right again_. She knows that is not why she is leaving, but she fears that is how he will interpret it, no matter which words she painstakingly chooses to craft her goodbye. She hopes that the others understand this about Reid, too, and that they will reassure him that it isn't his fault, that they will pick up the pieces of his heart when she is gone and quietly and lovingly mend them together again.

That was why she clicked with him first, before she connected to the others who would become her family—because she understood him, perhaps even the deepest and best, because she recognized the pieces of herself within him, because parts of her story were so similar to his, because she never had to explain herself to him, because he simply  _knew_ , perhaps deeper and better than most.

Deep down, they are both timid and uncertain children, with bright eyes and quick minds and voices silently praying,  _Please love me, please let me be enough for once, just once, please just find me deserving of love and worthy of acceptance, please don't make me feel as if I need to hide or change myself, please see me and love me and let me be_. They both had mothers who could not fully care for them (hers through choice of career, his through a sad twist of fate and genetics), both spent childhoods trying to please in order to be loved, only to find that their attempts to gain acceptance only further set them apart (though in completely opposite ways—he was labeled  _genius_  and put up on a shelf for observation, she was labeled  _unforgivable_  and put outside the Church as an example to others), and both still carry the scars and fears of failing in the battered suitcases of their hearts, both still understand the feeling of alienation, of being completely alone in a room filled with people, of always having the sneaking suspicion that everyone else can sense and see their unworthiness, their differentness, their unacceptableness.

She will miss that most of all—the feeling of being understood, of being around a creature of her own species, the reassuring weight of some unseen seal of approval and acceptance.

Gotong-royong. Noun. Origin: Indonesian/Malay.  _The joint sharing of burdens, the bearing of the weight of the world together with trusted friends._  Despite the fact that Emily Prentiss has led a charmed life (at least compared to some that she has witnessed—the starving children, the maimed and diseased, the castaways, the less fortunate, the abused, the forgotten), it has not been without stress. In fact, that element has always been a constant in her world. However, she had never felt more at-ease than she did during her first stint at the BAU. It was something about the way that the team took care of one another, like a family, the way that everyone was alike in some way, though each point of connection was different. They understood each other, they shared the same demons, they empathized on a level that no one else could because they had all been there—they'd stood together over bodies broken and bruised beyond recognition, they'd traveled into the belly of the beast and somehow made it to the other side, only to return to the darkened pit again and again (did that make them heroes, courageous knights questing to save the world, or simply fools who didn't learn from past experiences, who continuously chose to reopen those wounds on their souls and psyches?).

These were her people. She hates that her mind already uses the past tense. These  _were_  her people...when did she slip away from the tribe? When did her heart quietly walk away, when did she disconnect, when did she start using  _were_  instead of  _are_?

For a moment, she tries to trace back to the root of this current dilemma, tries to pin-point the beginning of the end, and is surprised to find that she cannot do so. She thinks that it was probably when Ian Doyle came back into the picture, whenever she was first forced to start lying to the others (she hadn't told them about things from her past, but that wasn't lying, because they hadn't asked). However, she remembers how deeply she missed her team when she was in witness protection, and how all she wanted was for Doyle to be captured so that she could finally return home.

Had she been pining to return to something that was already gone?

Saudade. Noun. Origin: Galician/Portuguese.  _A nostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves, which often carries the repressed knowledge that the object of longing will never return._ Even when she was waiting and hoping for her return to the BAU, perhaps she'd already known that her time here was up, and her place among these people was lost forever. Maybe she's just being melodramatic (a frequent claim of her mother's). Hindsight's 20/20, and maybe when she was longing to return to the place and people who were her home, she had still truly believed that she would be able to pick up and continue her life without any displacement.

Regardless of what she knew or didn't know then, she realizes that what she feels now is even deeper and more melancholic than anything she felt while in protective custody. Then, she had hope. Now, she knows that she will never be able to fully return home. It is the death of hope that strikes the hardest blow, and she almost wishes that she was still away, still believing that she could simply slip back into her old rhythm, still secure in the faith that she belonged with them, instead of trapped in this limbo where what she wants and what she needs are in complete opposition and the struggle is shredding her heart in pieces as she vacillates between the two choices.

Finifugal. Adjective. Origin: Latin.  _Hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story, relationship, or some other journey_. Emily Prentiss knows that this is one of her many character flaws—it is the reason that she is masochistically ripping herself to pieces over this decision, it is the reason that she's looking at houses when she knows that this place is no longer home, it is the reason that even now, even as she knows what she must do, she is still trying to convince herself that she belongs here.

She keeps a running list of all the things that she loves about living in Virginia, all the things that she enjoys about her life here, all the ways that her job once provided her with a sense of purpose and self-fulfillment, all the people whom she knows and loves, who know her and love her in return, all the scars and wounds that she will leave in her wake, like a tornado or a tsunami or some other destructive force of nature.

She also realizes that like the tornado and the tsunami, she is not intentionally inflicting this damage. It is simply part of her nature, part of something that must be done in order for her to continue and survive, to  _thrive_ , and she must perform this vital act. She is in the midst of a great battle of spirit and self, and the sad truth about battles is that there are always wounds.

Sciamachy. Noun. Origin: Greek.  _A battle against imaginary enemies, fighting your own shadow._  Emily Prentiss has been shadow-boxing for more than half of her life now, and one would think that with so much practice, it would be easier, but it's not. It's not, because at one point, those shadows took true form, and they fought back, and they left scars on her body and in her soul that will never fully fade away.

She still wakes in the night, body frozen in fear, heart in her throat, unable to scream, unable to hear anything over the pounding of blood and adrenaline in her head, because she just  _knows_  that he's here, he's back, he's in the very same room, and he's come to finish what he's started. Then her reason returns, and she reminds herself that Ian Doyle is dead and he can never hurt her again. Still, this logic doesn't change the fact that tomorrow night, she will wake in the same state of pure terror, unable to sleep again. She always wakes feeling more helpless and disoriented than she felt when they were rushing her down the blindingly-white halls of the hospital, screaming at her and telling her that it was all going to be alright, although their shrieking and fearful eyes and rushed movements belied their assurance (but by then, she'd felt so strange and distant, had thought that it was already OK, she just needed to sleep, to be left alone to sleep...).

"Emily," Spencer's quiet voice hesitantly breaks through her thoughts, as if he hates to disturb her, but he's afraid that she's slipping too deeply into her own mind again (he always seems to sense this, always finds a way to quietly bring her back, always understands that sometimes she needs to be saved from her own thoughts, because sometimes he does, too).

She blinks, shakes her head slightly, returns her focus to the man standing beside her, with his worried expression, his hands holding onto the strap of his leather bag as if it will somehow protect him from what he sees in her eyes (what he sees but doesn't want to admit, not even in the quiet recesses of his mind).

"I'm sorry, I'm just...I'm so tired," she rubs her forehead, and it's not entirely a lie. The problem is her reason for being so tired—she's not sleeping because she's too busy crying at night, trying to push herself back into feeling like she's happy here (though she knows it isn't as simple as mind over matter, because it's mind over heart, a darker and more powerful creature than her physical body could ever be), she's not sleeping because when she does sleep, she dreams of terrible things, of searing pain and crying children and the look on Doyle's face when he saw his son.

"Probably because you started drinking coffee again," Spencer suggests, and she can't help but smile—of course, he would remember that she gave up caffeine years ago, and of course, he would notice that she had started drinking coffee again. He continues, his face scrunching into an expression of clinical concern, "Your body's not used to having so much caffeine, and it's throwing off your sleep cycle."

She nods in agreement, looking away so that he can't see that she's lying—coffee is the least of her problems, and certainly not the source of them.

"Where'd you park?" They are standing at his car now, and he's craning his neck to see if he can spot hers.

She motions further down the row. "Not too far."

He gives a small nod, but he doesn't move, and she knows that he's going to stand here until he's certain that she's made it safely to her own vehicle (he won't walk her to her car, because he knows that she can take care of herself, but he will watch her every step of the way, ready to swoop in if some unforeseen disaster occurs). It is this silent affirmation of his care for her that makes her throat tighten with unshed tears again, because this is what she missed when she was away, and this is what she will miss when she's gone again, and yet, it somehow isn't enough to make her feel like she truly belongs here anymore.

When she gets to her own vehicle, she turns back to give him a wave ( _safe and sound_ ). He is standing there with the dull, sickly lights of the parking lot creating odd shadows around his feet, dark pools that move and shift around him as he gives a small wave in return.

In that moment, he looks exactly how Emily Prentiss feels—alone. Achingly alone (yes that is the word for it,  _achingly_ , because sometimes the loneliness is physically painful, a dull ache that radiates from muscle to another). It touches a strange mother-chord in her, and she feels a pull deep inside, a desire to rush back across the parking lot, to take him into her arms, to take him home, to take away the shadows under his eyes and the even darker sadness dancing beneath them.

She wants to, but she knows that she can't. She can't, because right now she's fighting this weird energy, she's becoming unbalanced and cagey, and when she gets this way, she lashes out. Emily Prentiss knows (because history had taught her so many times) that in this state, she will make brash and impulsive decisions, she will do anything to push away the sadness, and she will most likely do something that she regrets. She will act upon feelings that she's never expressed, she will burn every bridge in sight, she will tear down the foundations of her world just so there won't be anything left to miss when she walks away.

Mamihlapinatapai. Noun. Origin: Yaghan.  _A look between two people that suggests an unspoken shared desire for one another._  They had looked at each other like that many times, especially in the beginning, when they first began working together (she will never forget the look on his face when she proved her prowess at chess by pointing out that Gideon was going to beat him in three moves, during her first case, when they were on the plane to Guantanamo Bay—the surprise, the admiration, the first stirring of intellectual attraction that made her stomach flutter in response, because here was a man who was entranced by her brain, not her hips). Over the years, the looks became fewer and farther between, less and less until she thinks that they don't look at one another like that at all anymore. At some point, each had an inner-struggle in which they decided that their friendship was more important that any possible physical fling, and thoughts of that nature simply faded away.

But now she's thinking those thoughts again. Now she's thinking that she's about to leave again, this time for good, and perhaps she's missed her chance at something more with this man, this brilliant man who is tender and sweet and kind and funny and sarcastic and broken like her, who has never allowed her to be anything other than her true self, who has seen more of her than any of her former lovers, who knows her more intimately than any man she's ever slept with. And now, more than ever, she simply wants to be seen, to be known, and she knows that she will feel all those things and more with him, if she finally crossed that bridge, if she brought them crashing and tumbling to the other side.

He would hate her even more for leaving, if she pulled him into her bed before she left. No, she corrects herself—Spencer Reid would not hate her, he could never hate her. No, he would be further crushed, his heart would be even more broken, perhaps beyond repair, and she would hate herself even more for torturing one of the kindest people she's ever known in such an intimately cruel way.

She will not act on these impulses. She didn't then, and she won't now. This will be her last gift to him, sparing him further pain—a gift that he will never know was given, a gift for which he will never be grateful, a gift that is also strangely a punishment.

Of course, compassion is not the only thing that stays her hand.

Atelophobia. Noun. Origin: Greek.  _The fear of not being good enough._  Physically, Emily Prentiss has no qualms or uncertainties about her sexual abilities. But she knows (she fears) that she could never be all that Spencer needs emotionally, spiritually, psychologically—her flaws and failings and childhood scars are much too close to his own, she could never help him heal, could never mend the wounds that needed mending the most, could never complete him and balance him the way that he deserves to be. He would never understand, because despite his intellectualism, Spencer Reid is a giant sopping romantic, and he would try to hold on to her forever—he is not the kind of man who understands ships passing in the night, not the kind of man whose heart can withstand dalliances and flings, not the kind of man who deserves anything less than a perfectly-matched, passionate mate who will fill all the spaces that Emily Prentiss never can.

Their friendship works because there are other friends to fill the gaps that they cannot complete for each other. Emily realizes that perhaps this is why neither of them has tried to push for something more—because underneath the shy looks and burning glances, there was always the sorrowful softness of knowing that what they wanted to be for each other and what they would actually be were two very different things. Perhaps they've always known that they were too alike to be a match.

Emily Prentiss knows that all these things are true, but the knowing doesn't stop her mind from wondering and wandering, and as she truly, finally decides that she can no longer stay here, she cannot stop the small voice in her head from quietly asking if now she will finally be brave enough to say something, to do something, to take a chance before all is lost, before all is gone ( _after all, you're going to lose him again, what's the harm in crossing the bridge before you burn it?_ ).

She pushes this last thought aside, chides herself for her selfishness and cowardice, vows that she will not be so hedonistic, that she will protect his heart and will never betray him so deeply.

However this is hard to remember the next night, whenever she sees him at Will and JJ's wedding, when he glances up from his conversation with Henry and sees her standing in the doorway, and the look in his eyes makes her heart stop and her throat tighten and her stomach quiver like a thousand tiny moths beating against a glass windowpane, trying to reach the flame on the other side (the flame which they know will end them, the flame which they know is the one thing they don't need, yet they want with every fiber of their being).

Apodyopsis. Noun. Origin: Greek.  _The act of mentally undressing someone_. Also, exactly what Spencer Reid is doing as he stands to his full height, soft smile on his lips as Emily moves closer. Even if she stops her mind from thinking about such things, her cheeks are flushing at his attentions, and the nervous flips in her stomach are like pulsars, sending out waves of warmth to the rest of her body. For a moment, she can pretend as if this isn't the last time that she walks among these people (once her people, perhaps still her people, but no longer her home). For a moment, she can simply be a giddy girl who has been noticed by her crush. It is a welcome distraction, because Morgan knows the truth, knows her sorrowful secret, and when he looks at her, Emily only sees sadness and nostalgia—when Reid looks at her, she sees something else, something much more appealing and enjoyable.

They have been playing this game too long—it is too easy for Spencer to extinguish the odd light in his eyes, too easy for him to stop looking at her in soft wonder, too easy for him to remember to look at her and see only a friend, not  _something else_  or  _something more_.

And just as easily, Emily's cheeks forget to blush each time he looks at her, and her stomach stops its quivering, and her skin cools and her pulse stills, and she knows that any hope for  _something else_  or  _something more_  was lost a long time ago, lost with no chance of return. She knows her foolish thoughts were just that—foolish and unfounded and just thoughts, not actions or plans.

It is pleasantly surprising, how easily and gently she accepts this truth, how her mind doesn't even try to fight it. Tonight, when she confessed to Morgan, she'd felt an odd calmness settling over her, because by speaking about it, she was finally acknowledging the crisis, truly accepting the inevitable outcome, and there is something good and right and balanced about it all.

Her body is no longer singing with weird energy, she no longer feels caged or trapped (she is still in the cage, but the door is open, and she knows that she can and will step through it soon), she no longer feels the need to burn bridges or destroy the world (because Morgan was so sweet and honest, so accepting of her words, so loving, so concerned only for her well-being, and he has reminded her that she is loved, and that no one will hate her for doing what she must). Yes, there will still be many heartaching changes and more quietly heartbreaking conversations to be had, but now she feels that all will be well, because it is as it should be.

The ceremony is sweet and loving, and Emily is thankful that she was able to witness this—perhaps this is really why she returned here in the first place, because fate or the stars or divine forces knew that her closest friends were going to celebrate so many beautiful milestones, and that she needed to be here for them. But those milestones are quickly becoming memories, and maybe her purpose here is fulfilled, her time here is done.

She stares up at the stars, so crystalline against the deep navy expanse of the universe, and she feels an overwhelming gratefulness for the time she has been given, in this place, with these people, as this person.

Yugen. Noun. Origin: Japanese.  _An awareness of the universe that triggers emotional responses too deep and mysterious for words._  She is caught between being grateful for her lot in life, and being filled with dread at the realization that her lot and place are changing. Nostalgia battles relief and need, and she's no longer sure which one she wants to win. From her current standpoint, it seems like each outcome ends in loss. And while she truly is thankful for the time that she did spend here, she also regrets it—regrets ever knowing how it felt to belong, regrets how right and wonderful it felt, regrets ever allowing her defenses to be lowered and breached by so many amazing people, because in the end, you can't miss what you never had, and now that she has had  _belonging_  and  _rightness_  and  _acceptance_  and  _family_ , she will miss it terribly (and she fears that she will never feel those things again, that she will forever spend her life looking back and remembering the one time and the one place that she truly felt part of something other than herself). Before she came to the BAU, she never minded being an outsider, never minded feeling displaced and distanced and distracted from her own life, because she'd never experienced the flip side of that coin. Being apart was simply her life, and while she didn't always enjoy it, she understood and accepted it. She was used to it. Now these wonderful, beautiful souls have broken her of that habit, and she knows that it will be a painstaking and unwanted transition back into her old way of life.

The transition has already begun as she slowly walks around the dance floor, her quiet eyes cautiously watching her family of friends as they smile and dance and laugh and love, so oblivious, so protected in their warm little bubbles. They will miss her, she knows this, but they will not be displaced by her departure. They will still have each other, they will still have rightful places of belonging, they will still have purpose and passion and parallel paths, lives lived in-tandem. Perhaps she is slightly envious of this, but more than anything, she is grateful—knowing that they will be alright without her is the only thing that makes her leaving bearable.

Reid is walking towards her, a warm benign smile on his lips (not the soft wondering smile from earlier, not the one that makes her heart forget to beat, but the gentle unthinking smile of a friend). He doesn't ask questions or even offer explanations as he simply grabs her wrist and lightly pulls her onto the dance floor.

He makes amusing comments about their fellow dancers, and she finds herself laughing, surprises herself with how easily she can smile at his words, at how quickly she can lose her sorrows when he is near. His arm around her waist is sturdy and reassuring, and he leads them so effortlessly across that floor that she can't help but crack a quip about his apparent secret life as a ballroom dancer (to which he replies that ballroom dancing is merely a set of physical algorithms, repeated in certain phases to certain beats, and she rolls her eyes and regrets ever mentioning it, though secretly her heart smiles because this is who they are, this is what she wants them to be in their last moments—their truest, sweetest, brightest selves, in their simplest, purest forms).

He pretends to be embarrassed when she teases him again, though he is smiling and she knows that he enjoys it, too (because he knows that this is who they are as well, knows it and accepts it and even delights in it). Then the music changes and he easily twirls her towards a new partner, taking Penelope into his arms.

Sillage. Noun. Origin: French.  _The scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in the water, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone, the trace of someone's perfume._  As he turns away, the slightest hint of Reid's cologne catches Emily's nostrils, fading just as suddenly as it arrived and leaving behind an odd sense of hollowed-out wanting. She catches herself watching him from across the floor, as if he is already just a memory dancing across the marble floors of her mind.

And suddenly, she realizes that Spencer Reid will not be the one filled with melancholic emptiness at her departure. He will not be the one pining for the past, wondering about the days of what-might-have-been. No. It will be Emily who feels these things, Emily who misses, who feels empty and alone and abandoned, Emily who will struggle to regain balance, who will forever carry an odd hole in her soul.

All this time, she has thought of herself as the wind, blowing across Reid's serene surface, disturbing his calmness. Now she realizes how wrong she was—Spencer Reid is the gentle breeze, and she is the water, rippling and changed by his quiet presence. Her life was detached and calm and logical and static, and he has blown across the surface, leaving Spencer-shaped spaces and marks that will remain long after he is gone.

Yes.  _Sillage_. There it is. The perfect word to describe everything that they are and were and will be—the things left behind, never the actual things, just memories and empty spaces and curls of smoke on the breeze. Blowing and rippling, hollowing and hollowed, forever affected but never truly touched. Too little too late and not enough too soon.

 _Le mot juste_. Of all the words in the world, this is the one that most perfectly encapsulates their entire mutual existence. It is Emily's final puzzle-piece, her last achievement before moving on, because she has finally defined them, has labeled the unlabeled, has expressed the undefinable, has ordered the place of sticky emotional chaos. She has found her word, has simply and cleanly placed it over the picture frame in her mind, has bottled up years of history into a single descriptor, after such painstaking learning and relearning and rediscovering of their mutual definition.

Flaubert would be proud.

* * *

_"It is a talent of the soul to discover the joy in the pain—thinking of moments you long for, and knowing you'll never have them again. The beautiful ghosts of our past haunt us and yet we still can't decide if the pain they caused us outweighs the tender moments when they touched our soul. That is the irony of love."_

_~Shannon L. Alder._


End file.
